The leaves and grass, burnt in the fall.
Waxed terrazzo, high school hall.
Mushrooms fresh, aroma rising.
Apples boiled, so tantalizing.
Fresh cut hay, just rolled in bales.
The fluff you strip from old cattails.
Fat cigars on gentle breeze,
Loved by some, but others sneeze.
And Mom’s perfume, ”twas by Chanel,
Number Five, we loved to smell.
Burning hair, with focused glass.
The boyhood dare we had to pass.
Red red rolls (gunpowder caps)
We had no gun, just hammer taps.
Firecrackers lit and tossed.
The blue smoke rising, fingers crossed
In hopes that they would all be spent,
Excitement so magnificent.
Gasoline on youthful fingers
Stinky smell that always lingers
Smoky chimneys, burning wood.
Winter in the neighbourhood.
Coffee perking in the pot,
Inviting us to drink it hot.
Fishing worms left out too long
That turned to soup, and smelled so strong.
Electric motors’ dying phase,
A cloying stink that lasts for days.
But, most of all, the Christmas Tree.
The oil of pine’s the one for me.